3: There's One Born Every Minute
CALLAGHAN awoke and gazed at the ceiling. He threw back the bedclothes, put his feet on the floor and rumpled his thick black hair with long fingers.
Then he began to dress.
This done, he walked over to the table in the corner of the room and took the cover off a dilapidated portable typewriter. He inserted a sheet of plain paper and wrote a note to the landlady.
Dear Mrs Lake,
I'm going away for quite a bit. Keep my room for me. I'm leaving everything. If anybody wants to know where I am, tell the truth— you don't know. I enclose twenty pounds— ten weeks' rent. Maybe I'll be back before then.
Yours truly,
S. Callaghan.
He went over to the window, ran a ruminative finger over his unshaven chin. Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and produced the t
